Innie's Tale: The Hunt
"Down, down!" he hissed. And rebel soldier Alan Zechariah obeyed. In the ruins of the former barracks on Westerplatte, Zechariah, and his fellow Insurrectionist, Francis Daniels, clutched at the cold, unforgiving concrete as the noise of Pelican engines sounded overhead, and the white column of light from its searchlight ran up and down the peninsula, searching for many rebels like them, who had fled Gdansk to the area, hoping it was a safe haven. As the shouts of what Zechariah could only assume were UNSC troops grew louder, and the Pelican's engines became quieter, Daniels yanked on his collar, and the two slowly got up, and turned, running deeper into the peninsula's forests. It was a cloudy night, and even the moon was full, the clouds made sure it shone no light for either side, and besides sporadic commands and the omnipresent noise of dropship engines, the air was silent. Taking slow, methodical steps, the two rebels cringed at every crunch of leaves or snap of twigs they stepped on. Neither of them had any idea how many troops that the UNSC had committed to sweeping Westerplatte, but all it would take to have every hostile on the peninsula was for one person to hear them moving. "Down!" whispered Daniels again, and Zechariah dropped to the deck, doing his best imitation of a limp body, and holding his breath as the blinding white column of light from the Pelican flying above them passed over the two. There was no doubt the people in it had seen them, but Zechariah hoped they had believed they were dead. If they did not, it was time to run. As the two rebels lifted their heads up, they saw what looked like men in the distance. But they had an aura of light about them, and when they walked, they made no noise. They turned towards them, and Zechariah slowly stood up, walking towards them, mesmerized by them. "What are you doing?!" screeched Daniels, but Zechariah kept walking. As he came closer, he felt the color flow from his face, and saw who these "men" were. Some of them had steel helmets, one or two had a four-pointed cap on, the kind that souvenir vendors in Gdansk sold to passersby. Their uniforms were ancient. They were made of wool, with a high collar, leather belts with ammo pouches around the waist, strips of cloth twisted around their calves, and canvas bags dangling from the shoulders. Their weapons were beyond outdated, long arms with wood stocks and manual actions. One raised his rifle, appearing to point it at Zechariah. Flinching as he saw a flash, there was a crack, but no pain. He looked down at his midsection, and there was no wound, only another man with an aura, in a different ancient uniform, lying on the ground. Several shots rang out again, and Zechariah looked again, the figures were gone. "Zach, what are you-?!" screamed Daniels, but he was never able to finish his sentence. He toppled to the ground, and in the ensuing silence, the distinct crunching of boots sounded, and Zechariah saw more shadowy figures walking through the forest. He turned to run, but there was nothing he could do. Another shot rang out, and he collapsed. Looking up, the last thing Zechariah saw were a column of auras, but he could not make out what they were.